


The Madness in the Dark

by mrs_fish



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Case Fic, Crossover, Discussion of Rape, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Horror, M/M, PTSD Sherlock, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-07-29 14:30:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 17,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16266140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_fish/pseuds/mrs_fish
Summary: An aged John Watson recalls the one case he never documented.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You don’t need to know anything about Lovecraft’s Elder Gods to follow this story except that Cthulhu comes to you in **dreams**. Addresses used are actual places, even if the location is someplace fictitious.
> 
> James Lovegrove has written an amazing novel called _Sherlock Holmes and the Shadwell Shadows_. I never expected to find Holmes and Cthulhu in a book together, but boy was I glad when I did. An incredible casefic set in Victorian London that I highly recommend. It was the inspiration for this story.
> 
> If you're looking for deserted places in and around London, then check out Paul Talling's website, www.derelictlondon.com. The description and history of the Caird and Rayner warehouse is taken directly from there.
> 
> Cover art: https://www.squidge.org/~mrs_fish/bookcovers/The%20Madness%20in%20the%20Dark.jpg
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.
> 
> Please do not redistribute my fan fiction to other archives or sites without permission.
> 
>  **Note** : This has not been betaed nor Britpicked. If you find any glaring errors, please let me know.

* * *

**The Madness in the Dark**  
**by Mrs. Fish**

_I shall never sleep calmly again when I think of the horrors that lurk ceaselessly behind life in time and in space, and of those unhallowed blasphemies from elder stars which dream beneath the sea, known and favoured by a nightmare cult ready and eager to loose them upon the world whenever another earthquake shall heave their monstrous stone city again to the sun and air._  
\- H.P. Lovecraft, _“The Call of Cthulhu”_

**The Green**  
**East Dean, Eastbourne**  
**December 2046**  


It’s been snowing for hours. The grounds are a pristine blanket of white. There’s nothing moving except for the gentle fall of the snowflakes; the only sound is the crackle of the fireplace before me.

I’m not worried. I have plenty of firewood, the pantry is full, and there’s an ample supply of petrol for the generator. Despite my 75 years, I can still get around on my own fairly well. Not that I get out and about much any more. Food is delivered weekly from the village, and the young man who brings the groceries – Andrew Hastings is his name – also chops firewood and does general maintenance around the cottage. He was fascinated by the bees from a young age, and Sherlock was more than willing to pass along his knowledge.

Sherlock… It’s been two years and it still hurts to think about him. There are times I miss him so badly that I just want to end it all. But I know that’s not what he would have wanted. In fact, he made me promise that I wouldn’t join him until it was my time.

I’ve been going through our papers; trying to get affairs in order to make the process a smooth one. I don’t want strangers sorting through a lifetime worth of documents, just to end up tossing the lot. Most of the case files and related artifacts will go to the Royal Society, along with Sherlock’s scientific paraphernalia. That is, all the artifacts but one.

My solicitor has been given strict instructions that the statue locked in my safety deposit box is to be hand delivered to the Curator of the British Museum, where it will be placed in the Occult Collections Vault for perpetuity. Under no circumstances should it be removed from its case, unwrapped, or left unguarded for any reason. The statue itself isn’t valuable – it’s chiseled from a single block of obsidian – but the figure it represents… the world must never know about that.

How Sherlock and I obtained the statue has never been documented. There are no case notes, no photographs, and neither of us discussed the matter once it was closed. Some things should never see the light of day, and this object is one of them. It belongs buried in the deepest, darkest pit along with those cultists who worship the creature depicted upon it.

But this isn’t the sort of thing I should be thinking about before bed. Maybe a bit of telly to distract me.

The lead news story is about an archeological discovery somewhere in the South Pacific. A series of underwater earthquakes has brought a heretofore submerged island to the surface. It was discovered by the crew of a Japanese freighter on its way to South America. The video footage is shaky and obviously taken with a mobile phone, but it’s **what** the video shows that sends a shiver down my spine and makes my blood run cold.

Everything is incredibly huge – greenish stone blocks of unbelievable size covered in mud and weeds, along with colossal statues and bas-reliefs. In addition to the immense size of the structures, the angles of the city look all wrong, as if it were made from non-Euclidean geometry and dimensions apart from our own.

The crewman taking the video moves closer to one of the bas-reliefs and brings the camera into focus. Dear God, no!

A crushing pain in my chest has me reaching for the bottle of Glyceryl trinitrate that is a constant, comforting weight in my pocket. I place a tablet under my tongue and wait for the symptoms to subside. One of these days it won’t be enough, but for now I close my eyes, relax and keep breathing. However, the image from the bas-relief is still fresh behind my eyelids, and I shake my head to try and banish it.

This is too much of a coincidence. The crew has no idea what they’ve stumbled upon; what that island represents and the horrors that lie hidden deep beneath it – horrors that should never be released.

I get up slowly and retrieve my laptop. The story needs to be told; the world needs to be warned before it’s too late. For there is no doubt in my mind that the island the Japanese freighter stumbled upon is none other than accursed R’lyeh.

Even after 29 years I can still hear the chanting… the chanting in that horrible, guttural language, _“Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn”_ – In his house at _R'lyeh_ , dead Cthulhu waits dreaming


	2. Chapter 2

_The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown._  
\- H.P. Lovecraft, _“Supernatural Horror in Literature”_

 **221B Baker Street**  
**London**  
**Present Day**  


It’s hot; the Afghan sun beats down mercilessly on our platoon as we crouch behind the crumbling remains of an ancient fortress. Breathing is almost too much of an effort. The dry desert air sucks the moisture from my lungs and refills them with dust and sand. My limbs are heavy; suddenly I can’t move and I start to panic…

“John… John, wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”

My eyes fly open; I sit up and take in my surroundings. Baker Street... I’m in our bed. Sherlock is gently stroking my hair, a look of concern on his face. I flop back down, take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“Better?” he asks, still caressing my hair.

I nod my head and smile at him. “Yes, thanks.”

“The desert fortress again?”

“How did you know?”

“Your whole body tenses for just a moment before you start struggling. If you dream about getting shot, you’re more relaxed. Either way, your nightmares are always about your time in Afghanistan.”

_Except when they’re of you jumping off the roof of Barts._

I don’t say that out loud. Of course Sherlock would notice my body’s reactions during a nightmare. He notices everything, especially since we’ve become lovers. I smile and pull him down for a quick kiss.

“Right; and on that note… I’m going to use the loo, have a quick wash up, and then start breakfast. Care to join me?”

* * *

Showered, dressed and fed, Sherlock and I share a companionable silence as we read the daily papers and drink our tea. Forty five minutes later, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of New Scotland Yard staggers up the seventeen steps to our flat.

The man is a mess – hair disheveled, clothes rumpled and dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. If he’s here to ask for assistance on a case, it must be very bad indeed to have affected him like this.

“Morning gents. I… um… I…”

Lestrade’s knees buckle and Sherlock and I manage to grab him before he hits the floor. We half-carry him to the sofa, letting him stretch out fully once we get there.

“Greg, are you okay? Do I need to get my medical bag?”

“No; I’m alright, John. Just let me rest for a minute.” He closes his eyes and pauses briefly before speaking again. “In all my years on the force, I’ve never seen anything like this; I can’t get the images out of my head. I… Oh, Christ…”

The Inspector jumps up, shoves me out of the way, and stumbles to the loo. The sounds of retching follow soon after. I go to the kitchen and put the kettle back on.

* * *

“Sorry about that.” Greg apologizes as he sips the ginger tea I made for him. He’s back on the sofa, looking somewhat paler, but calmer, and a bit more put together than when he arrived. Sherlock and I sit across from him; the coffee table replaced by our chairs.

“Nonsense, Lestrade,” Sherlock replies, waving his hand dismissively. “In all the time we’ve known each other, the one thing you’ve never demonstrated is a lack of courage. I can only deduce by your current state that this case has something of the horrific about it; something so alien that it has turned your worldview on its ear.”

“Horrific is what it is, Sherlock. Beyond horrific, actually. I… I can’t even begin to describe it. We’ve been at the scene all night, and... You’ll have to see it for yourselves. But I can’t ask you. Not this time.” He stares down at the cup and takes another sip of tea; his hands are shaking. Whatever Greg saw has got him terrified.

Sherlock glances over at me and I nod. “Lestrade… you don’t have to ask. John and I will gladly offer any assistance you need on this case. You might be an Inspector with Scotland Yard, but you’re also our friend, **and** you’re family. Let us help you.”

Lestrade looks from me to Sherlock and back again. He’s truly torn about asking for our help.

“Greg, it’s okay mate. We’re here for you.” I add, hoping to sway his decision.

“Alright…” he sighs. “But if this gets to be too much, I want you to back away. You understand? You two have been through enough hell to last a lifetime. I’ll not add to it.”

We both agree and Greg texts Sherlock the address after he leaves.

The game is on.


	3. Chapter 3

_It is absolutely necessary, for the peace and safety of mankind, that some of earth’s dark, dead corners and unplumbed depths be let alone; lest sleeping abnormalities wake to resurgent life, and blasphemously surviving nightmares squirm and splash out of their black lairs to newer and wider conquests._  
\- H.P. Lovecraft, _“At the Mountains of Madness”_

 **Caird and Rayner**  
**777 Commercial Road**  
**Limehouse, London**

The police have cordoned off a two block area surrounding the warehouse, so we exit the cab and walk the rest of the way, weaving around emergency vehicles and police cars as we do.

“So what was this place?” I ask as we approach the derelict building.

“Caird and Rayner,” Sherlock explains, “owned and occupied this building as a sail-makers’ and ship-chandlers’ warehouse from 1889 to 1972. It’s the only original building of that kind surviving in Tower Hamlets. Because it was a sail-maker's loft, the main part of the building just had a ground floor and a full height space in which to hang and manage sails, with a gallery around the inside perimeter at first floor level. The rear of the warehouse has two double loading doors which open onto the Limehouse Cut, which as you know, links the lower reaches of the Lee Navigation to the Thames.”

Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan is waiting with Lestrade at the main gate. She acknowledges us with a nod as we approach, but thankfully no snide comments are directed towards Sherlock. Her entire demeanor around him has changed ever since his return from the dead. Personally, I think she feels guilty about what she and Anderson did. I’m grateful she doesn’t accompany us inside.

Lestrade leads us around the side of the warehouse and through a service entrance which connects to the main part of the building. We’re barely inside when the smell hits us – the coppery festering odour of blood – lots of it – and the stench of decaying fish. As we move on I start to breathe through my mouth or risk embarrassing myself by losing my breakfast and contaminating the crime scene.

“Here, try this.” Greg hands me a small, brown vial. “Put a drop under your nose.”

I open the bottle and recognize the scent of peppermint oil. I follow the Inspector’s instructions and find it does help mask the smell rather well. I offer the vial to Sherlock, but he refuses.

The warehouse is immense, and not just in height. You could fit a rugby field in the main building, and still have room for spectators. We pass through another door at, what I think is, the rear of the building. I glance at my watch. It’s just past ten in the morning, but the warehouse is already heavily shadowed. Inspector Lestrade gives Sherlock and I each a torch, which we immediately click on.

A few more twists and turns and we’re now in total darkness; the temperature has dropped several degrees as well. The concrete floor we've been walking on since entering the warehouse has transitioned to soft dirt.

We come upon a wall that’s had a large hole blown in it. As we step through, I reach out and grab it for balance – my hand comes away wet.

“Condensation?” I ask to no one in particular.

Sherlock speaks for the first time since entering the building. “Yes, John. Unless I’m mistaken, and I very much doubt that I am, we are now traveling parallel to the canal. In fact…” He reaches down and grabs a handful of dirt, sniffs it and lets it sift through his fingers. “High concentration of nitrogen and organic matter. This was marshland before the warehouse was built over it. But why block this section off? It makes no sense.”

“You’ll have your answer just up ahead.” Greg replies.

The ground begins to slope downward at a steep angle. Someone's installed a temporary rope fence which helps slow our descent and keeps us from pitching onto our faces (or falling on our arses). Nothing surrounds us but an oppressive blackness that grows stronger the further we proceed.

We continue to walk for another several metres, with a gradual leveling of the dirt floor. My torch beam catches something up ahead. As we get closer, I realize it’s yellow barricade tape. This must be the actual crime scene.

Sherlock quickens his pace, moving ahead of Lestrade and me, but stops suddenly and looks up. He’s pointing his torch towards the ceiling, but all I can see is an endless darkness in all directions. That is, until I’m standing next to him.

Directly in front of us is a monolith, at least 30 metres high, carved from some black stone. I don’t know if I can accurately describe the horror sculpted into that cyclopean monument. It’s a being – a representation of something from out of a nightmare – vaguely humanoid in shape with a head like an octopus, and tentacle-like appendages extending from the facial area. The body is scaly, positioned in a squat. Gigantic claws decorate both hands and feet, and long, narrow wings jut from the creature’s back.

The ground surrounding the statue is drenched in blood; in some places there are standing pools of it. How many people were killed here?

Motion in my peripheral vision makes me turn, but it’s just Sherlock. He slowly backs away from the statue, hands pressed to his temples, torch discarded at his feet. His lips move, but there’s no sound emanating from them.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

When he doesn’t answer, I grab his forearms to get his attention. His eyes are wild and terrified and he frantically tries to pull away from me. I release him; he turns toward the statue and begins yelling.

“Cthulhu fhtagn! Cthulhu fhtagn! Cthulhu fhtagn!”

I scream his name and take a step towards him. 

Sherlock freezes; his eyes roll back into his head and he collapses in a heap.

* * *

**St. Bartholomew’s Hospital**  
**W Smithfield**  
**London**

It's been four hours since Sherlock lost consciousness. The doctors have run every conceivable test they can think of including an EEG and MRI, but all the results have either come back negative or normal. But something out of the ordinary obviously happened. Lestrade and I both witnessed it.

Mycroft arrived half an hour ago – he’s remarkably subdued. After inspecting all the medical equipment attached to his brother, he pulls a chair next to the bed and just sits. There’s no smugness about him, no arrogant mien; he’s obviously concerned about Sherlock, but there’s an underlying current of something else going on.

After ten minutes, the uncomfortable silence between us is almost unbearable. I want him to yell, to say it was my fault, to blame Sherlock… anything but the absolute stillness of the man. Another five minutes goes by before he finally speaks.

“Cthulhu…” It’s almost a whisper, as if he’s afraid to speak the word aloud.

“What does that mean?” I ask. “Sherlock said it several times before he collapsed.”

“John… I’m afraid you and my brother have stumbled upon something very ancient, very evil…”

“Evil? Mycroft what are you on about?”

“There are more things in heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

“Really?” I run a hand through my hair and take a deep breath. “Okay… Mycroft, do you or do you not know what the hell is wrong with Sherlock?”

“Of course he doesn’t, John, because there’s nothing wrong with me.”

I look at the man lying in the bed. Sherlock is wide awake and staring at me. I can’t decide if I want to hug him or smack him for being an arse.

“Mind palace,” he says. “I retreated to the vault in my mind palace. It’s impenetrable… even to psychic attack it seems.”

Mycroft chimes in at this point. “There are things we must discuss, brother mine. You and Doctor Watson, as always, rush in where angels fear to tread.”

“Oh, enough with the quotes, Mycroft.” Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns back towards me. “He’s right though, John. We do need to talk about what we found in that underground chamber. But first you need to get me out of here.”

* * *

It takes another two hours before the doctors release Sherlock into my care. They insist on running a few more tests (and rerunning others), then give us a list of precautions and symptoms to be aware of, before we’re allowed to leave.

We exit the hospital and are immediately whisked away in one of Mycroft’s chauffeured cars; Anthea is noticeably absent.

We’re traveling in the wrong direction for either Baker Street or Whitehall, and I doubt Mycroft would take us to his home, so that leaves only one possibility for our destination – The Diogenes Club.

* * *

**The Diogenes Club**  
**10 Carlton House Terrace**  
**London**

Ensconced in Mycroft’s private office – with strict instructions that we are **not** to be disturbed under any circumstances – Sherlock and I fortify ourselves with sandwiches and tea, while the elder Holmes brother makes several phone calls.

Anthea joins us as we finish eating. Mycroft disconnects his call and she leans down to whisper something to him.

“Thank you, Anthea. That will be all.”

Mycroft waits until she leaves to address us. “Gregory and the rest of New Scotland Yard have been removed from further involvement in the Caird and Rayner murder case. In fact, the entire investigation has been transferred to the purview of MI6. Which means that you, brother mine, and Doctor Watson are off the case as well.”

Sherlock steeples his fingers in front of his lips and mulls over this new development. “If I agree… and I’m not saying that I will, I want access to all the information you have on Cthulhu and his followers. **All** the information, Mycroft.”

“I’m afraid that I cannot comply with your request. The British Government does not have in its possession any such materials.”

“The British Government may not, but you know who does, and my guess is that they’re in the Occult Collections Vault of the British Museum. A place so secure, that it would be easier to access the vault in Fort Knox than there. And you will get me access. Come along, John.”

I hurry to follow Sherlock, and we both exit the club.

“Where to?” I query.

“Baker Street, of course. Taxi!”


	4. Chapter 4

_He had read much of things as they are, and talked with too many people. Well-meaning philosophers had taught him to look into the logical relations of things, and analyse the processes which shaped his thoughts and fancies. Wonder had gone away, and he had forgotten that all life is only a set of pictures in the brain, among which there is no difference betwixt those born of real things and those born of inward dreamings, and no cause to value the one above the other._  
\- H.P. Lovecraft, _“The Silver Key”_

 **221B Baker Street**  
**London**

After arriving home, we both toe off our shoes and settle in our chairs with a cup of tea. Since Sherlock said we should discuss what happened in the warehouse, I begin the conversation.

“What happened to you today? You mentioned something about a psychic attack when you woke up in hospital.”

Sherlock leans forward, elbows on knees. “There was a presence, John… I know what that sounds like, but hear me out. It started when we entered the chamber – a soft buzzing sound – but more than that. I could **feel** the sound as well as hear it – at the base of my skull. The closer we got to the statue, the stronger and louder the sound became, until my head was literally vibrating from the intensity; then it just stopped. And **that’s** when I heard the voice – a voice not of this world! All I wanted to do was run away and scream in terror, but I could do neither. The words, John. It wanted me to say the words, and I **did**. It was its will against mine, and with your help, I was able to wrench free from its control long enough to retreat to my mind palace. I had no idea if it would provide a safe haven from the entity, but thankfully it did.”

I slide to the floor and gather Sherlock in my arms. There’s a slight tremor running through his body. He doesn’t frighten easily, so whatever he experienced in that place must truly have been horrifying.

“John…”

Sherlock joins me on the floor, buries his face in the juncture between my neck and shoulder, and hugs me.

“I’m alright.”

I pull back a bit so we’re facing one another, then cup his face in my hand. “I love you, and I'll always be there for you no matter what happens, Sherlock.” I kiss him very tenderly and wrap myself around him, as if my love alone could protect him from all the evils in the world.

It’s obviously what he needs, because he kisses me back so hard that we both fall backwards onto the rug. After that we both dissolve into a fit of giggles. We lay there for several minutes, until the sound of footfalls on the stairs has us scrambling for our chairs. Mycroft appears a moment later.

He looks at Sherlock and asks, “Am I interrupting?”

We both start laughing again, but Mycroft’s serious expression forces us to get ourselves under control.

“You have an appointment at the British Museum tomorrow at 11:00 am. Dr Richard Simondson, the curator, and Professor Michael Abernathy, who’s in charge of the Occult Collection, will be interviewing you to determine if you’ll be allowed access to the vault. You’re to meet them at the lecture rooms. It’s the best I could do.”

“Thank you, Mycroft. John and I will be there.”

He turns to leave, but hesitates at the door. “Are you sure you wish to pursue this line of inquiry? I’m not a superstitious man, Sherlock, but I fear this course of action will have dire consequences for one or both of you.”

“Sentiment, brother?”

“I told you once that your loss would break my heart. I meant it then and I mean it now. If anything should happen to you or John… Please reconsider, Sherlock, for both your sakes.”

And with that he turns and heads down the stairs. Sherlock goes to the window and watches as his brother drives away, a puzzled look on his face.

“Your loss would break his heart? When the hell did he say that?” I ask.

Sherlock turns from the window, walks to the sofa and sits down. “The first Christmas you spent at my parent’s house after I’d been shot by that assassin. It was when he and I stepped outside to have a cigarette.”

“Ah… that’s why I don’t remember. Seems a bit out of character for Mycroft though.”

Sherlock pats the sofa and I walk over and join him. “My brother is an enigma, John. Don’t fret over it.” He hands me the remote and we settle in to watch a bit of TV.

* * *

After telly comes dinner and sleep, at least for me. Sherlock stays up to do some research on his laptop. He does eventually come to bed because he’s there when I wake up in the morning. We shower together a little longer than usual (Sherlock doesn’t often initiate sex, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to refuse him when he does), dress and have a leisurely breakfast. At 10:30 we leave the flat, hail a cab, and head for the British Museum.

* * *

**British Museum**  
**Great Russell St.**  
**Bloomsbury, London**

We’re early, so we take our time climbing the 12 steps to the museum entrance. We make a left through the Bookshop, then turn right past the Assyrian Transept and large Egyptian sculptures before following the stairs to the basement.

Dr Simondson and Professor Abernathy are waiting for us. They introduce themselves, then the four of us go inside.

Both men, I learn later, are in their early 50’s. But if someone were to ask me to guess their ages, I would have said that Professor Abernathy is much older. His face is lined with wrinkles, shoulders stooped, and he leans heavily on a cane. His hair is pure white, but his green eyes are alert – darting here and there – never settling on one thing for too long. It’s he who begins the questioning.

“Mr Holmes, Dr Watson; both of you are known to us, by reputation alone. Your brother, Mycroft, has petitioned us to grant you access to the Occult Collections Vault. The books contained therein are the most dangerous books known to man. Yes, dangerous. Because the knowledge they contain, could, if secured by the wrong type of individual, release such horrors…” The Professor coughs several times, the pauses to clear his throat.

Sherlock interrupts. “Professor Abernathy, I am well aware of what the vault contains. My interest is not trivial, but vital, because I believe forces are at work, as we speak, to unleash one of those horrors upon the world.”

He goes on to explain about what we found in the warehouse and the psychic attack made on him. Dr Simondson and Professor Abernathy listen intently. When Sherlock finishes, both men are visibly shaken.

Professor Abernathy rises slowly from the table. “Mr Holmes… if you and Dr Watson will follow me please. I’ll take you to the vault.”


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

_Pointing to a chair, table, and pile of books, the old man now left the room; and when I sat down to read I saw that the books were hoary and mouldy, and that they included old Morryster’s wild Marvells of Science, the terrible Saducismus Triumphatus of Joseph Glanvill, published in 1681, the shocking Daemonolatreia of Remigius, printed in 1595 at Lyons, and worst of all, the unmentionable Necronomicon of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred, in Olaus Wormius’ forbidden Latin translation; a book which I had never seen, but of which I had heard monstrous things whispered._  
\- H.P. Lovecraft, _“At the Mountains of Madness”_

 **Occult Collections Vault**  
**British Museum Sub Basement**  
**Bloomsbury, London**

We follow Professor Abernathy down several corridors until we come to a lift. There's a key pad with palm reader attached to the wall beside it. The Professor places his hand on the reader, waits as it scans his hand, then keys in a 10 digit number. The lift doors open and we step inside. I'm not sure how many levels we descend, but it seems to take several minutes. I feel like I’ve stepped into a James Bond film; all I need now is to see Q when the doors open.

After exiting the lift, we walk along more passageways and finally arrive at our destination. The Occult Collections Vault is just that – a vault. A solid steel door six inches thick protects the collection; once again a key pad and palm reader are adjacent to the door, but this one also has a retina scanner.

After Professor Abernathy gets the door unlocked, Sherlock and I enter the vault. It's bigger than I thought it would be – at least 6 metres long and the same number wide. The air is cool, so it's obviously climate controlled as well. Most of the books are in locked, glass-fronted cabinets.

“Where is the _Necronomicon_ , Professor?” Sherlock asks. “I assume you have a copy here.”

“Yes, of course. It's in the rear section of the vault, along with related titles.”

There's still **more** security protecting this Necronomicon. A steel gate, once again with a numerical key pad, blocks our way. Professor Abernathy opens it, points us to the respective case, then unlocks it with a key from around his neck. They certainly aren't taking any chances on anyone making off with any of these books.

“Take as long as you need, gentlemen. I'm afraid that I must lock you in here for security purposes. There's a phone by the door. It will automatically dial Dr Simondson's office and my own. One of us will come and let you out when you've finished. If we don’t answer after three rings, the call is forwarded to Security. That post is never vacant, so there’s no chance of you being stranded in here.”

* * *

“Have a seat, John.” Sherlock gestures towards the two carrels against the far wall. There are several notepads and pens on the shelves above the main desktop areas. I sit – the chair is remarkably comfortable – and wait to find out why we’re here.

After looking through the case opened by the Professor, Sherlock returns with several books. “I’m afraid this is going to be very tedious, John, but necessary. We need to go through these books and find any and all references to Cthulhu. Don’t worry if they’re in another language, just copy the text. We can always translate them later.”

I look at the titles, a bit daunted by the task. _De Vermis Mysteriis_ by Ludvig Prinn; _Unaussprechlichen Kulten_ by Friedrich von Junzt; _Cultes des Goules_ by Comte d’Erlette; _Book of Iod_ ; _Book of Eibon_ ; and the _Pnakotic Manuscripts_. Sherlock has taken the _Necronomicon_ for himself.

* * *

After a couple hours, I turn to Sherlock and ask, “Wouldn’t it just be easier to take photos of the books?” I stand and stretch, then walk around a bit. My hand has totally cramped up, and I don’t think I could write another word if I wanted to. This is worse than sitting for A-Levels.

“It would be if there were any service in here.” Sherlock finishes the section he’s copying, gathers up all the books and returns them to their case. “We can come back tomorrow, or I can come alone if necessary and finish this.” He clasps me on the shoulder and adds, “Thank you for your help. ” After he collects the papers we’ve copied, he goes to the door and picks up the phone. A few minutes later Professor Abernathy releases us, and we leave the museum.

* * *

Sherlock decides we should have lunch before going home, so we take a leisurely stroll and end up at the Lantana Café Fitzrovia. I've never eaten here before, but the Asian Prawn Salad sounds good and I pair it with a Vale Amber Beer; Sherlock gets an appetizer of bread with olive oil and Lantana hazelnut dukkah and black coffee. It isn’t much, but I’m thankful he’s given up the habit of not eating or sleeping while on a case (even if we’re technically not on one).

Comfortably full, Sherlock pays the bill and we walk towards Rathbone Street to catch a cab. On the way there his mobile rings. He frowns as he glances at the caller ID. “What is it, Mycroft? Where? No, we’ll find our own way there.” He hangs up and glances around.

“What’s happened?” I inquire.

“I’m not sure, but my brother has requested that we meet him.”

Sherlock hails a cab and gives the cabbie the address, “Convoys Wharf, Deptford Dockyard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid I've let my imagination run a bit wild in this chapter. I've never been to the British Museum, and I'm sure all the security I've included here doesn't actually exist.
> 
> But it sounds cool, doesn't it?
> 
> All of the books mentioned in this Chapter are taken directly from Lovecraft's works.


	6. Chapter 6

_I have seen beyond the bounds of infinity and drawn down daemons from the stars… I have harnessed the shadows that stride from world to world to sow death and madness…_  
\- H.P. Lovecraft, _“From Beyond”_

 **Convoys Wharf**  
**Royal Dockyards**  
**Deptford, London**

It takes us nearly 30 minutes to get there. The cab parks as close as it can, then we walk – talk about déjà vu. It’s another deserted warehouse, but instead of uniformed police, there are lots of men in dark suits with earpieces and stab vests. We approach the barricade and show our ID’s. After a quick radio check, we’re waved through, and the guard points us in the right direction. I have a bad feeling about this.

“This used to be the Royal Dockyards, right?”

Sherlock looks at me and smiles. “Go on.”

Testing me? Okay... “They were built at the order of King Henry VIII as a storehouse for supplies, and a place to train naval officers. It eventually grew into the main site for construction of the ships of the Royal Navy. The Museum of London Archaeology did a dig here in 2010 to determine the archaeological potential of the site because the land owners, Convoy’s Investments, wanted to develop it. Petitions went back and forth for years, until Convoy’s wrote to then London Mayor Boris Johnson to call in the case. The Royal Heritage Society got involved at one point too. They’re still arguing about it.”

“Most impressive, John. But then you do have a keen interest in military history.”

* * *

Mycroft is leaning against the boot of his car. He straightens his shoulders, pulling himself to his full height as we reach him.

“So why have you asked us here, Mycroft?” Sherlock questions.

“It would be better if I showed you. This way.” He points his umbrella towards the two hanger-like buildings in the distance.

I interrupt. “Hang on a minute. If this is anything like Caird and Rayner… You **know** what happened to Sherlock there. Are you really willing to risk your brother’s life, Mycroft?”

“I assure you Dr Watson, that while there are similarities between the two crime scenes, there are no monoliths within.”

Mycroft walks away; we follow.

* * *

Sherlock and I are handed a pair of Type 2 Hazmat suits when we reach the entrance to the building. They're self- encapsulating, so we don't have to haul around an air tank as well.

“You're not coming in with us?” I ask Mycroft.

“No; I've already seen what's inside, and once is quite enough thank you. The scene’s been left pretty much as it was found. It isn’t pleasant.”

Once Sherlock and I are fully kitted out, Mycroft opens the door and ushers us inside.

* * *

Portable lights have been set up to illuminate the rear of the building, but there’s enough sunlight coming in through the skylights for us to see where we’re going. The concrete floor is covered in several centimetres of dust and debris, and we pick our way through the refuse until we’re at the back wall.

I can see now why Mycroft didn’t want to re-enter the building. Christ! It’s like a scene from a slasher film. Sprays of blood cover the floor and rear wall – unlike the first crime scene, there are no standing pools of it. There are also no traces of organs or soft tissues. Stacks of bones are placed at regular intervals, but they’re all arranged at odd angles. None of the stacks are displayed in the same way.

Sherlock carefully inspects each pile of bones, even crawling on the ground to get a closer look. He finally stands up and turns to me. “John, please give me your professional medical opinion of the remains.” His voice is loud over the two-way radio.

I lower myself to the floor and begin my examination. “The bones are all smooth. There are no nicks or gouges that would indicate the flesh was removed with a sharp instrument; no teeth or claw marks to denote predation. A chemical agent of some sort? Acid perhaps?” Sherlock helps me up; my knee cracks loudly.

“That was my first thought, but why go through all the trouble of hauling in barrels of acid? And why remove them once you’ve completed your task? If the purpose of all this…” Sherlock gestures towards the stacks. “is merely to obtain the bones, why not just kill them elsewhere and bring them here?”

“Unless the location is important.” I offer.

Sherlock clasps my upper arms. “That must be it, John. Both locations are in deserted warehouses near bodies of water. I’ll need to reference a map to be sure, but I think we’ve gotten our first solid clue. Well done!”

* * *

Back home at Baker Street, Sherlock stares at the map of London he’s pinned to the wall. He marks both murder locations with a black Sharpie, then draws a line connecting them.

“You were right, John.”

“How so?”

“Both locations are on the same longitude, and they’re both tied to the Thames – Caird and Rayner via the Limehouse Cut, and Convoys Wharf directly. We need to finish our research on Cthulhu. Once we do I’m sure we’ll have a clearer picture.”

We hear the front door open, followed by several sets of heavy footsteps on the stairs. It’s Mycroft, along with his ever-present umbrella, and four men in suits – they’re each carrying a cardboard storage box – which they place on the floor by the desk.

The elder Holmes glances at the map before settling in Sherlock’s chair. “I thought I’d save you some time. As it turns out, Professor Abernathy has made the study of Cthulhu his life’s work. He’s graciously agreed to allow you access to his research.” He indicates the boxes. “There are 52 in total – each labeled as to content. Gregory will be by after work with the case file from the Caird and Rayner murders.” He hands Sherlock a manila folder. “And here’s everything we have on the Convoys site. You’re welcome.”

Before Sherlock can reply with something snarky, I ask Mycroft, “How many people were killed at the first site?”

“There were ten bodies found there.”

“Bodies? Not just bones?”

“The remains of ten individuals were found, however, there were no intact bodies. They’d all been torn apart.” Mycroft pales slightly.

“And how many at the second site?”

“Also ten, but as you saw, only the bones remained.”

Sherlock looks over at me. “Some correlation between the two, John?”

“I’m not sure. There was a great deal of blood at Caird and Rayner; very little at Convoys. The only thing I know about human sacrifice is what I’ve seen in horror films; but usually the victims’ throats are slit and the blood offered to the deity/entity to summon them to our plain. Once here, they require additional sacrifices of some sort. Our murder scenes follow that scenario to a tee.”

Mycroft sighs heavily. “Are you suggesting we hire Bunny Galore as a consultant?”

“Nonsense, Mycroft.” Sherlock chuckles. “I think Dr Terror would be a better choice. Don’t you, John?”

“You two are insufferable.” Mycroft replies sternly.

The last of the boxes are brought upstairs and stacked against the wall. Mycroft stands and turns to leave. “Your work is cut out for you. Good day, Sherlock; John. Please keep me apprised of your progress.”

* * *

I look over at the mountain of cardboard and just shake my head. “Where the hell do we start?”

Sherlock examines the labels. “They seem to have put all the boxes with the same content together for us. Let’s start with the ones labeled Cults. The information may give us some insight into the killings.”

* * *

It's after midnight before we finally get to bed; I drop off almost immediately. Sherlock must have gotten back up because the next thing I know, I'm awoken by blood curdling screams coming from the living room. I grab my gun from the bedside table and rush in to find Sherlock on the sofa – alone, curled in a foetal position.

I sit down and pull him into my arms. He's shaking; I can feel his heart pounding against my chest.

“It's okay, Sherlock. Tell me what happened.”

He doesn't answer immediately; just squeezes me tighter and buries his face against my shoulder. We sit this way for several minutes before he calms down enough to speak.

“Cthulhu came to me in a dream… I was in a huge, dank cavern standing naked before him. He was sitting on a massive throne, intricately carved with symbols. He looked exactly like the monolith at Caird and Rayner, except he wasn’t made of stone, John… he was **alive**. I felt his presence in my mind – searching, probing – trying to exert control over me. I was frozen in place; helpless.

“He slowly rose and reached out two monstrous tentacles towards me. They encircled my wrists and I was pulled quickly and forcefully until I was mere centimetres from him. His foetid breath was hot and wet against my body. Then he raised his right hand, extended a claw and raked it down my chest. Searing pain coursed through me and I dropped to my knees and screamed. That’s when he released me and I woke up.”

Sherlock pulls away, winces, and places a hand on his chest. “I can still feel where he clawed me.”

“Let me have a look.”

Sherlock raises his shirt and I gasp… there's a red line of raised flesh running from his left shoulder to his naval. As we watch, the redness fades and the skin returns to normal.

“Does it still hurt?”

“No… there’s no longer any pain, John.”

Sherlock sits back and assumes what I call his ‘thinking pose’ – eyes closed; fingers steepled in front of his mouth. I have a feeling that neither of us will be getting any more sleep tonight, so I go into the kitchen and put the kettle on. While the water is heating, I return my revolver to the bedroom, grab Sherlock’s dressing gown from the back of the door, then head back to the living room. The sofa’s empty; Sherlock’s rooting through one of the cardboard boxes.

“What are you looking for?” I question.

“I read something earlier regarding dreams. Ah, here it is. It’s an article describing an alternate dimension accessible through a person’s dreams called the Dreamlands.”

Sherlock pulls the document from the box and begins reading.

_‘Early in life most people can enter the Dreamlands at will, but as adulthood approaches, this gateway closes for the majority of dreamers. Only a few adults have been able to enter this land again, through the use of certain narcotics or simply by dedicated dreaming. Some physical portals between the Dreamlands and the waking world do exist, but these gateways are few and are often found in dangerous locales in both realms._

_‘The influence of Cthulhu and the other Great Old Ones in the Dreamlands is minimal, though these beings do possess some power over this realm.’_

“I wonder if my drug use has somehow made me more susceptible to Cthulhu’s control.”

“Sherlock,” I begin. “I don’t think there’s any way for us to know the answer to that. And don’t you **dare** suggest that you shoot up with something so we can test your theory.”

Before my partner can offer a witty retort, the kettle whistles and I go into the kitchen to make us tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bunny Galore is the host of _Bunny Galore's Movie Nightmares_ , which, I believe, is still running in the UK. Dr Terror was the host of _Dr. Terror's Vault of Horror_ from 1993-1996.
> 
> The information on the Dreamlands is taken directly from the _Encyclopedia Cthulhiana_ by Daniel Harms.


	7. Chapter 7

_Meanwhile the cult, by appropriate rites, must keep alive the memory of those ancient ways and shadow forth the prophecy of their return._  
\- H.P. Lovecraft, _“The Call of Cthulhu”_

**221B Baker Street**  
**London**

I must have dosed off while reading because the next thing I know it’s mid-morning. Sherlock’s covered me with a blanket; he’s sitting at the desk poring over more of Professor Abernathy’s documents.

“Morning, John.”

The blanket is tossed over Sherlock’s chair and I get up… or rather, I attempt to get up. It takes a couple tries. I’ve got a stiff neck and my back muscles are screaming. Ah, the joys of growing old.

“You should have gone back to bed when I told you to.”

I answer with my middle finger and head off to take a very hot shower.

* * *

There’s tea waiting when I get out.

Sherlock’s in the kitchen putting bread in the toaster. He walks over, wraps his arms around me and kisses my forehead.

“I’m sorry, John. That was insensitive of me. The only reason you stayed awake as long as you did was to ensure my safety. It couldn’t have been comfortable sleeping in that chair. Do you need a massage?”

“Not right now. The hot shower’s helped, but I’ll take a raincheck.”

“Any time you’d like.”

Sherlock kisses me again, then the two of us work on making breakfast.

* * *

I get a call from the clinic a short time later. Two of the other doctors have called out and they’re extremely short staffed.

“Go, John. I’ll just be sorting through documents anyway. The worse thing that can happen to me is a paper cut.“

That doesn’t necessarily reassure me, but I go to work despite my fears.

I should know better than to ignore my gut feelings.

* * *

The flat’s dark when I return home at 7:00. I turn on the lights, hang up my jacket and check the bedroom. Sherlock’s nowhere to be found, so I dig out my mobile and try calling him – it goes straight to voice mail. Mrs Hudson isn’t home and Lestrade hasn’t seen Sherlock since he dropped off the case file yesterday.

Only one more person to try, and if he doesn’t know where his brother is… no, I won’t go down that road quite yet. I manage some dinner and a cup of tea before Mycroft gets back to me.

“Where is he, Mycroft?“

“I’ve tracked his phone to Caird and Rayner. I’m sending a team there as we speak; a car is waiting for you downstairs.“

I end the call, grab my gun, a couple extra clips and a torch, and race down the stairs to the street.

* * *

**Caird and Rayner**  
**777 Commercial Road**  
**Limehouse, London**

There’s no sign of anyone at the scene, and I don’t hear any sirens in the distance. I ask the driver to radio for a status – the team is en route; ETA is 10 minutes.

Sherlock could be dead in that time, so I take off towards the service entrance we used the last time we were here; the door’s unlocked. I take a deep breath, switch on the torch and step inside.

The place is eerily quiet. I assume they’ve taken Sherlock to the monolith room, so I try to remember my way there. The smell of rotting fish is almost overwhelming, but at least I know I’m going in the right direction.

I turn a few more corners and come across the wall with the hole in it. Just as I’m about to step through the opening, someone grabs my collar and yanks me back. All I manage to see is a big, beefy fist coming towards me before everything goes black.

* * *

Voices… chanting in some guttural language. I’m being half-carried, half-dragged between two hulking brutes. My left eye is swollen shut and I’ve got a splitting headache, but I have a feeling those are the least of my worries.

I’m dropped near the base of the statue. The ground is wet and sticky with fresh blood. I manage to get to my knees and look towards the idol. Sherlock is sitting in the space between the creature’s feet; he’s naked and covered in blood. He rises slowly and approaches me.

I get to my feet and start towards him, but stop when I see his face. Sherlock’s eyes are two pools of liquid black, even the sclera.

“John…“

His voice is otherworldly; deeper than his normal baritone. He reaches up and caresses my cheek, careful of the injury.

Sherlock turns to face the cultists and yells, “Who **dares** to harm my mate?“

As one, they drop to their knees. Hell, I’m tempted to join them. There’s power behind his voice – the air is thick with it.

Movement on my right makes me turn – it’s mister beefy fist. He walks up to Sherlock, falls to the ground and tilts his head back.

Sherlock holds out his right hand, palm up, and one of the cultists places an ornate dagger in it. It’s already been used, judging by the dried blood on the blade. He raises it above his head and cries out something in that strange language, then slashes the blade across the kneeling cultist’s throat. Arterial blood sprays across Sherlock’s torso and onto the ground.

Suddenly a voice cries out, “Everyone freeze!” The MI6 team has finally arrived.

No one moves except Sherlock. He raises his hands above his head and yells again. A loud buzzing noise fills the cavern, rising in pitch and intensity until I think my head is going to explode. I don’t know how long it goes on, because, thankfully, I lose consciousness.

* * *

**St. Bartholomew’s Hospital**  
**W Smithfield**  
**London**

I open my eyes slowly – actually just the right eye – the left one is still swollen shut. My head is pounding in sync with my heartbeat, and I really think I’m going to vomit.

“John… easy there, mate.”

It’s Lestrade. I make the mistake of turning my head a bit too fast and… oh, crap. Greg grabs an emesis bag from the wall dispenser and I empty my stomach contents into it. He hands me a glass of water to rinse and spit.

“Thanks, Greg… Where’s Sherlock?“

“Sherlock wasn’t at the warehouse when we got there, John. Mycroft’s on his way; he’ll need your statement.“

* * *

My brother-in-law doesn’t look too well when he walks in the room. He and Greg have a private moment before he settles on the chair next to the bed.

“John, how are you feeling?“

“Like, shite, but that doesn’t matter right now. What’s being done to find Sherlock?“

“Perhaps it would help if you told us what happened at Caird and Rayner. The live feed from the MI6 team’s cameras went out almost immediately after they entered the warehouse.“

So I explain, in great detail, the events – bizarre as they were – as they unfolded. I also tell Mycroft and Greg about Sherlock’s dream encounter with Cthulhu. Neither man says anything.

The silence is nerve wracking, so I finally ask, “What did you find at the warehouse?“

“Bones… stacked in piles at odd angles, just like at Convoys Wharf, and the MI6 team’s equipment next to them, but no sign of the men or of Sherlock.“

“What about the cultists?”

Mycroft glances over at Greg. “There was no one there, John. The place was deserted.”

“But not when I was captured. There were between 20 and 30 others in that cavern. They were chanting in some bizarre language, and they were terrified of Sherlock, or whatever it was that possessed him. And judging by what you’ve told me, they had every reason to be. Look, Mycroft, I was never one of those people who believed in the paranormal… but I’m beginning to now. I don’t know exactly what we’re dealing with, but I do know that Sherlock is in danger. And the longer he’s being controlled, the harder it’ll be to get him back. Maybe Dr Abernathy can help us.”

“I’ll reach out to him in the morning. In the meantime, you get some rest. They’re keeping you overnight for observation.” Mycroft holds up his hand. “And before you start asserting that you’re fine, I suggest you look in the mirror.”

Mycroft rises from the chair and he and Greg start to leave. “There are two armed guards outside in case my brother tries to make contact. I’ll send a car in the morning to take you home. Good night, John.”


	8. Chapter 8

_Fool that I was to plunge with such unsanctioned frensy into mysteries no man was meant to penetrate; fool or god that he was — my only friend, who led me and went before me, and who in the end passed into terrors which may yet be mine!_  
\- H.P. Lovecraft, _“Hypnos”_

**221B Baker Street**  
**London**

As promised, a car picks me up and brings me home from hospital. First thing I do is take a hot shower and shave. I look like I’ve gone a few rounds with Sam Sexton, but at least both eyes are now open. I make a quick breakfast, then call Mycroft.

“Any word on Sherlock?”

“There’s been no change in status regarding my brother, John. I have every resource available at my disposal searching for him and the members of the Cult of Cthulhu. According to Dr Abernathy, they are the largest faction of worshipers for the entity. I’ll advise you as soon as I receive any word. In the meantime, just stay at home and rest.”

Mycroft ends the call before I can get in another word. “Bollocks!” Well I’ll be damned if I’m going to just sit at home and do nothing. Mycroft isn’t the only person with resources. I scroll through the contacts on my phone and call Bill Wiggins.

* * *

**Vauxhall Arches**  
**London**

Wiggins has managed to gather quite a number of Sherlock’s Homeless Network. “I spread the word, just like you asked Dr Watson. When folks heard that Sherlock was missing, everyone wanted to help.”

“Thanks, Wiggins. That means a lot.” I clear my throat and turn to address the crowd. “Thank you all for coming. Now as most of you know, Sherlock Holmes is missing. He’s been taken by a group of cultists… a dangerous group of cultists who we believe are responsible for the rash of killings that have happened around London recently. Now all I’m asking is for you to keep your eyes and ears open for anything unusual. If you see Sherlock or hear anything about him, don’t approach him or the people he’s with. Contact Bill Wiggins or myself at Baker Street. Any information, no matter how trivial it may seem, can be very helpful. Also, this group tends to favour deserted buildings on or near the Thames. Thank you, again. Oh… and of course you’ll be compensated for your efforts.”

I hand Wiggins an envelope full of cash. “Pass that out as a sign of good faith, will you.”

“You’re a good man, Dr Watson. I hope Sherlock appreciates that.”

* * *

**New Scotland Yard**  
**Victoria Embankment, Westminster, London**

Lestrade doesn’t seem too happy to see me. “I thought you were at home recuperating.”

“Nope,” I say as I take a seat and cross my arms. “That’s what your husband wants me to do. I can’t just sit and do nothing, Greg. I’ll go barking mad if I do.”

Greg runs a hand through his hair, sighs, then leans forward on his desk. “John, I can’t help you, as much as I would like to. The Yard was taken off the case. If I went against Mycroft, my arse would be on the line, not to mention my marriage.”

“And if our roles were reversed?”

“I’d be doing everything in my power to find him. You know I would.”

“What if I file a missing person’s report? Or report that Sherlock’s been kidnapped? You could investigate that, right?”

“Technically, yes, but…”

“No buts, Greg. Scotland Yard was removed from the murder investigation at Caird and Rayner. This is a separate case, although the perpetrators may be one and the same. Work with me here, please.”

“Alright, dammit. The things I do for the bloody Holmes family.” Greg goes to a file cabinet, pulls out several sheets of paper, then hands them to me. “Fill these out. We have to make it official.”

* * *

I take a cab back home after filing the paperwork on Sherlock. Mrs Hudson comes up a few minutes later. She’s carrying a tray with tea and biscuits. I take it from her and set it on the table next to my chair.

“Oh, John… you look terrible.”

“It’s just a black eye, Mrs Hudson,” I say as I pour tea for both of us.

“That’s not the point. I just don’t like either of you boys getting hurt. I worry about you two, always running around chasing criminals and such.”

“Ta, Mrs H. We know.”

“Where’s Sherlock? These are his favourite biscuits.”

I hesitate before answering. The last thing I want to do is upset Mrs Hudson, especially after her last declaration. But I don’t want to lie to her either.

“John? Has something happened to Sherlock?”

“I’m afraid it has. He’s been kidnapped.”

* * *

I give Mrs Hudson a very watered-down version of the case. She’s worried about Sherlock, naturally, but probably not as much as she would be if she knew the whole truth.

After I’ve told her everything, I carry the tea tray down to her flat for her, and I promise I’ll keep her informed. Now all I can do is wait and hope.

* * *

Two weeks go by and still no sign of Sherlock or the cultists. Oh, there have been lots of leads and false trails, but nothing solid. At this point I would do anything to get him back. Out of desperation, I start going through Dr Abernathy’s research again, box by box.

I’m just finishing the second box on Cults when Bill Wiggins calls. One of the members of Sherlock’s Homeless Network was grabbed off the street and taken to a warehouse on the Limehouse Basin, and is currently there along with the cultists.

I phone Lestrade and Mycroft, and fifteen minutes later the three of us, together with several teams of MI6 agents, are speeding through the night on what I hope is a rescue mission.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Possible trigger warning** in this chapter. There is a brief, but non-detailed description of what happened to Sherlock when he was being held by the cultists. It involved non-consensual acts performed on him.
> 
> Skip the section after Sherlock and John give their statements if you feel this would upset you. The rest of this chapter should be okay after that.
> 
> * * *

_This was that cult, and the prisoners said it had always existed and always would exist, hidden in distant wastes and dark places all over the world until the time when the great priest Cthulhu, from his dark house in the mighty city of R’lyeh under the waters, should rise and bring the earth again beneath his sway._  
\- H.P. Lovecraft, _“The Call of Cthulhu”_

**Deserted Warehouse**  
**Dunbar Wharf, Limekiln Dock, London**

The MI6 teams are deployed around the warehouse perimeter to cover the exits, with one team assigned to Mycroft, Greg and myself to enter through the main doors. We’re only going to get one chance at this, so I say a silent prayer that we get Sherlock back and in one piece.

Radio check to all the teams, then it’s a go.

My only objective is Sherlock, and God help anyone who gets in my way. The cultists fight like madmen, using anything at hand to prevent us from our objective, but they never really had a chance.

Five muscled men try to get Sherlock out the back doors, and that’s where I confront them.

“Sherlock!”

He turns at the sound of my voice. His eyes, gratefully, are normal and he begins to struggle against his captors.

I can’t get a clear shot so I yell, “Vatican Cameos.”

Sherlock drops to the ground, and the cultists scatter after I take one of them out with a head shot. I quickly push my partner behind me and dare anyone to try and take him. That’s how the others find us.

Mycroft hands his brother a t-shirt, track pants and some trainers, and I help Sherlock get them on after I do a cursory examination – he has some superficial contusions and abrasions on his arms, legs and torso, and he definitely needs a bath, but other than that he seems fine.

All the surviving cultists are zip-tied, loaded into vans, and driven off into the night. I assume they’ll be arrested and detained at some government facility, but they can rot for all I care. There are also ten captives being held in the warehouse. Thankfully, they’re all unhurt.

The elder Holmes wants to debrief Sherlock on the spot, but I draw the line and tell him it can wait until Sherlock’s hydrated, cleaned up, eaten and a had a decent night’s rest – in that order. He backs off after I give him a scathing glare.

* * *

We take Sherlock to Barts for a more thorough check-up, despite his protests that he’s unharmed. He hasn’t let go of my hand since we left the warehouse, and I’m concerned. 

It turns out Sherlock hasn’t sustained any serious physical injuries, but there’s always the psychological ones we can’t see. Sherlock’s offered the opportunity to take a shower at the hospital, but he refuses.

“I just want to go home.” It comes out very much like the whine of a petulant child.

I glance at Mycroft, and he nods. One of the MI6 teams chauffeurs us back to Baker Street, then sets up watch around the building, while I usher Sherlock upstairs.

* * *

Sherlock’s barely in the flat before he starts stripping off; he heads straight for the loo. I go to the bedroom and get him clean pants, pyjamas, a t-shirt and his dressing gown, then join him.

He’s already in the tub when I walk in – eyes closed, but a look on contentment on his face. I grab the shampoo and conditioner and kneel on the floor.

“You need to slide down and wet your hair so I can wash it.”

“Do I have to?” Sherlock asks, but there’s a smile on his face.

“Well, it’s either that or I fill a cup and dump it over your head.”

“Oh, if you insist.” He says with a chuckle.

It’s easier to wash Sherlock from inside the tub, so I undress and join him. I try to concentrate on the task at hand, but I can’t help but place a few tender kisses over his body as I clean it. After he’s washed, rinsed, dried and dressed, Sherlock works on his hair while I get dressed and put the kettle on.

Sherlock manages to eat a few biscuits with his tea, but I can see he’s fading fast. I finally just put the dishes in the sink, manoeuvre him into the bedroom, tuck him under the covers, and slide in next to him. Sherlock wraps himself around me and falls asleep almost immediately.

* * *

I wake up alone the next morning and practically jump out of bed and run into the living room. Sherlock’s sitting in his chair drinking a cup of tea.

“John… is everything alright?”

“Yes, sorry. I got worried.”

Sherlock puts the tea down, walks over and hugs me. “They won’t risk coming here, John. Not after the show of force you put on last night.”

“I hope you’re right.” I give him a quick kiss on the cheek, then head to the kitchen. “Breakfast?”

* * *

Greg calls later and asks Sherlock and I to come down to the station so he can take our statements. Mycroft is there when we arrive. 

Sherlock’s statement is likely to take some time, so I go first. I’m taken into an interview room with recording equipment; Greg accompanies me. I relate the events of Sherlock’s kidnapping and subsequent rescue. I don’t know how much of this is going to be admissible, but I add as much detail as I can.

When I’m finished, I step outside and Sherlock goes in.

“Do you want me to come in with you?”

“No, John. It’s best if you wait out here with Mycroft.”

* * *

Sherlock’s statement takes over an hour. I don’t know what he said, but Greg is visibly pale when he exits the interview room.

“Greg…”

“Take him home, John.”

“What did he say in there?”

“Just keep an eye on him. And you might want to get him to talk to someone.”

Greg walks off down the hallway with Mycroft close behind.

“What the…” I turn to Sherlock, who’s been leaning against the wall staring at his shoes since he finished his statement. “Sherlock, what did you tell him?”

“I’ll explain when we get home.”

* * *

After I make tea for both of us, Sherlock has me sit on the sofa, while he turns his chair at an angle to the fireplace. This isn’t going to be good.

“I won’t bore you with all the trivial details, John. After I was taken by the cultists, they immediately brought me to the Caird and Rayner statue room. Once there, I was forced to drink some vile tasting liquid that contained an opioid derivative. After I was compliant, they stripped me, drew designs on my body, then began chanting.”

Sherlock pauses and takes a deep shuddering breath. I don’t interrupt, even though all I want to do is run over and gather him in my arms. He has to do this at his own pace.

“It didn’t take long for Cthulhu to… possess me. I was aware of everything around me, but had no control over my body. If I had… well… they wouldn’t have been able to do what they did to me. I’m sorry, John.”

“Sorry? Sorry for what, Sherlock? You’re the victim here. Nothing you did or had done to you was your fault, and no one is going to blame you for it, especially not me.”

“And if I blame myself?”

“God, Sherlock, don’t do that… But if you do feel that way, then maybe you should talk to a professional and sort those feelings out. And, no, I don’t mean Ella.”

Sherlock chuckles and takes a sip of his tea. “No, I don’t imagine you did.”

We sit in silence for a few moments while Sherlock and I finish our tea. He then sets the cup down and clears his throat.

“After Cthulhu took control, several prisoners were brought before me and I was handed an ornately carved knife. I didn’t hesitate, not for a moment. I simply reached out and slit their throats, one after the other. I bathed in the arterial spray, relishing it… Once they were all dead, I handed the knife back to one of the cultists, then seated myself on the statue between Cthulhu’s feet. Then… then one of the female cultists came forward, knelt before me and brought me to completion with her mouth. I never had sex with any of the cultists, but one of them serviced me every day I was their prisoner; sometimes multiple times a day. I felt disgusted, but there was nothing I could do to stop them. Cthulhu seemed to know exactly what effect this was having on me, and encouraged the cultists to continue. I… I…”

Sherlock starts to sob and that’s when I go to him and wrap him tightly in my arms. Neither one of us says anything for a long time. Finally Sherlock pulls away and kisses my forehead.

“I love you, John Watson, and I always will.”

“I love you too, Sherlock, but right now my knees are killing me.” I get up slowly and we both move to the sofa.

Sherlock lays his head in my lap and I stroke his hair and lightly massage his scalp. I can feel him relax under my ministrations.

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock.”

“That’s all that happened. The cultists moved me around a lot, but we always kept close to water. That’s important… water is important to Cthulhu.”

“Okay, I’ll make a note of it. You just relax. I’ve got you.”

Sherlock’s breathing evens out, and it isn’t long before he’s asleep. I pull the blanket from the back of the sofa and cover him, then turn on the TV, mute it, and spend the next few hours half watching crap telly.

When Sherlock wakes, I make dinner for us, but he doesn’t last long after that, and we end up making it an early night. I leave the dishes and we both get ready for bed. Sherlock wraps himself around me and settles his head on my chest.

“I love you, Sherlock.”

“Love you, John. Good night.”

“Good night, love.”

* * *

Life returns to normal, or what counts as normal in the Holmes-Watson abode. Sherlock has agreed to some down time, which means he’s looking over cold cases for New Scotland Yard. He seems fine, but I’m still concerned about what he went through – especially when he was possessed.

The cultists seem to have gone to ground, but Mycroft isn’t taking any chances. There is now a permanent security detail assigned to Baker Street and the surrounding area. We’re given photos of all the team members, and each day a new codeword is assigned in case they need access to the flat.

As for me, I’ve taken leave from the clinic. They were very supportive when I told them Sherlock had been kidnapped, but since I only work there two days a week, my absence won’t make that much of a difference, unless London is suddenly beset by an epidemic.

Despite the lack of activity by the members of the Cult of Cthulhu, I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. How was I to know it would be Sherlock’s size 11 when it did?

* * *

Sherlock has been growing increasingly restless, despite my efforts to keep him occupied. He eats just enough to keep alive, hasn’t slept in days, and his interactions with me have become hostile. I don’t know if his behavior is a by product of his kidnapping, but I’ve had about all I can stand. I grab my coat and practically run out the door.

I check in with one of the security team to let them know Sherlock is home alone before taking off down the street.

* * *

I’m back at Baker Street two hours later with a slight alcohol buzz. The flat is pitch black, but I can see Sherlock’s silhouette in front of the window.

“Where have you been?”

I freeze in my tracks. That voice… it’s the same one from the cavern.

Before I can even form an answer, Sherlock quickly moves from the window, grabs my jacket and shoves me hard against the door to the flat.

“You belong to me! Do you understand? Do you? **Do you?** ”

Sherlock’s voice rises in volume, and he punctuates each question by slamming my head against the wood until I pass out.

* * *

When I come around, it’s morning and I’m in bed. I get up slowly and feel the back of my head – it’s tender, but the skin doesn’t appear to be broken. After a trip to the loo, I wash up, swallow a couple Paracetamol, then make my way to the living room.

Sherlock is huddled on the sofa with a blanket wrapped around him. Mycroft is next to him. They both look up as I enter.

“How are you feeling, John?”

“I’m fine other than a headache. Why are you here, Mycroft?”

“Sherlock called – he was frantic; kept repeating that he’d hurt you. You were unconscious when I arrived, and considering my brother was the cause, I thought I should stay for both your sakes.”

“Good choice on your part. I’m going to make a cup of tea, then I believe the three of us need to have a serious conversation about the events of last night.”


	10. Chapter 10

_In relating the circumstances which have led to my confinement within this refuge for the demented, I am aware that my present position will create a natural doubt of the authenticity of my narrative._  
\- H.P. Lovecraft, _“The Tomb”_

 **Nightingale Hospital**  
**11-19 Lisson Grove**  
**Marylebone, London**

In the end we decide that Sherlock needs to be sectioned for his own safety – and mine. He’s admitted to a private facility; apparently it’s the same hospital that treated him for drug addiction when he was younger. Mycroft feels he’ll be more comfortable there, since he’s already familiar with the place.

He’s been assigned to Doctor Gustaf Johansen, who specializes in general psychiatry, psychotic illness, neuropsychiatry, depression, anxiety and stress. Dr Johansen has been practicing for over 20 years, and comes highly recommended. Mycroft and I meet with him after we’ve signed the admission papers.

“Gentlemen, please have a seat.” Dr Johansen gestures towards the two chairs in front of his desk. He has a thick patient folder in front of him; I’m assuming it’s Sherlock’s. He asks if we want something to drink; we both refuse. “Before we get down to specifics regarding Mr Holmes’ case, which one of you is to be designated as his nearest relative?”

“That would be me,” I answer. “Doctor John Watson; I’m Sherlock’s civil partner.”

Dr Johansen jots down some notes before proceeding. He directs the next question to Mycroft. “And you are?”

“I’m Sherlock’s brother; and the one who’ll be paying the bills.”

“Yes, well as to your brother’s condition…” Dr Johansen picks up a folder that’s clearly labeled **Classified**. “I’ve read through all the documents connected to his case, and I have to say, that if I didn’t know better, I’d think that someone was having me on. Cults, paranormal activity, blood sacrifices, monstrous creatures… they sound like something out of a bad horror film. But as it turns out, I’m quite familiar with the entity known as Cthulhu.”

Mycroft and I both look at each other with shocked expressions.

“Would you mind clarifying that statement, please?” I ask.

“Don’t worry, Dr Watson, I’m not one of his followers. My grandfather, who I was named after, was second mate aboard the two-masted schooner _Emma_ out of Auckland in the 1920’s. En route to Callao in 1924, his ship was attacked by a heavily armoured steam yacht. The crew of Emma overtook the other ship, but soon found themselves on an unknown island that turned out to be R’lyeh itself. All the crew were killed by Cthulhu except for my grandfather, and he only managed to escape because he ran the ship into the creature and injured it. He returned home and documented everything, but died in 1925 under unusual circumstances. The story, and my grandfather’s journal, have been passed down from my father to me, and will go to my son after I’m gone. So I’m in a unique position to treat your partner – I already believe his story.”

“Almost too convenient, if you ask me.” Mycroft replies, eyes narrowing.

Dr Johansen turns to address him. “Mr Holmes, are you a religious man?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Perhaps due to my family history, I have come to believe that there are higher powers in the universe – both good and evil. Your brother isn’t the first patient I’ve treated who’s been affected by Cthulhu or his followers; and I’m sure he won’t be the last. But I assure you, Mr Holmes, there is no one better qualified to care for him than me.”

Mycroft is quiet for a moment, as if deciding his next move. He looks over at me before answering. “The decision is out of my hands. Dr Watson speaks on my brother’s behalf.”

Both men turn to me, awaiting my answer. Despite my initial surprise at Dr Johansen’s disclosure, I feel that he’s telling the truth, and that he is the right person to help Sherlock.

“Bring him back to me, Dr Johansen.”

“I’ll do everything in my power, Dr Watson.”

* * *

I won’t go into all the minutia regarding Sherlock’s treatment, just that he’s in hospital for 197 days. I visit every single one of them, even when Sherlock doesn’t want to see me, just to let him know that I haven’t given up on him – or us.

Dr Johansen is there when Sherlock is discharged, as well as several nurses and staff members who helped with his treatment and recovery. Sherlock thanks each one of them by name before he takes my hand and says, “Let’s go home, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The character name of Gustaf Johansen and the story he tells about the _Emma_ is taken directly from _The Call of Cthulhu_.
> 
> And this is a **very** short chapter.


	11. Chapter 11

_Whilst never actually rebuffing a visitor, he always reared such a wall of reserve that few could think of anything to say to him which would not sound inane._  
\- H.P. Lovecraft, _“The Case of Charles Dexter Ward”_

**221B Baker Street**  
**London**

We’re dropped off at Baker Street by one of Mycroft’s private cars. Mrs Hudson is out of town visiting her sister, so it’s just the two of us.

Sherlock slowly walks around the flat, occasionally picking up an object and examining it, but mostly just observing – until he reaches his violin case. He hesitates momentarily, opens it and removes both the violin and bow, then begins to play.

The music is slow and sad and beautiful, and I’m just so damned glad he’s home that I start to cry. Sherlock puts down the instrument and gathers me in his arms.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how much I missed your playing until now.”

“Shhh… it’s alright, John.”

I don’t know how long we stand there, but eventually I pull away and ask, “Tea?”

Sherlock laughs. “Oh, John, if there’s one constant in the universe, it’s that no matter the problem or situation, a cup of your tea will always set things to right. I’d love one, thank you.”

* * *

We take things slowly. Mycroft must have put the word out, because our friends call ahead to schedule a time to visit. Lestrade, Molly, and Mike each stop by to say hello and ask if we need anything. None of them stay long.

Sherlock starts to get uncomfortable if anyone but me is around, even Mrs Hudson, although he tolerates Mycroft and his parents more than others up to a point. Loud noises terrify him. A car backfired outside the flat on his second day back, and Sherlock literally threw himself on the floor with his hands over his head. He was shaking so badly that I just took him to bed and held him until he calmed down.

He continues to see Dr Johansen twice a week. After his last visit, the doctor asked to speak to me privately.

“Come in, John; have a seat.”

“Thank you. Is everything alright with Sherlock? Has he had a setback?”

“Not exactly. Has he said anything to you about wanting to leave London?”

“What? No… no, he hasn’t. I’m lucky I can get him to go outside most days. He still has a lot of problems with crowds.”

“Yes, he’s told me. And that may be why he wants to leave. He specifically stated he wanted to go somewhere quiet where he could think, without the background noise of the city.”

“Did he say where he wanted to go?”

“Unfortunately, no. This may seem like an odd question, but do the two of you talk?”

“Talk? Yes, of course we do. We discuss the stories from the paper; Sherlock even deduces a bit. Last week I had Sherlock choose a novel that we would both read and discuss. I try to keep his mind occupied. He’s always at his best if he isn’t bored.”

“That’s very good; just the type of thing he needs. I know this hasn’t been easy for either of you, but he is getting better.”

“I know… I didn’t expect things to change overnight. I’ll talk to him when we get home about the possibility of a short holiday. Maybe he just needs a change of scenery.”

We both stand and Dr Johansen opens the door for me. Sherlock’s reading a medical magazine; he breaks into a smile when he sees me.

“I’ll see you next week, Sherlock.”

“Of course, Dr Johansen.” They shake hands and we leave the office.

* * *

“What did Dr Johansen want to speak to you about?” Sherlock asks once we get home. “I assume it was about me.”

We both settle in our chairs before I answer. “Sherlock, you know you can talk to me about anything, right? If there’s something bothering you or upsetting you or if I do something you don’t like… you can talk to me about it. I won’t get mad, but I need you to tell me how you’re feeling. I can’t always tell.”

“I’m aware of that, John. It’s just… well, you know I’ve always found it difficult to express my emotions. At least it was until I met you. You… oh, John…”

Sherlock buries his face in his hands and begins to cry. I jump up from my chair and go to him, but he pushes me away and runs into the bedroom. This isn’t good.

I count to ten before following. Sherlock’s curled on his side, sobs wracking his body. My heart breaks to see him like this, but it won’t do him any good if I break down too. I have to be strong for both of us.

I sit down on the edge of the bed, close enough to reach Sherlock if I have to, but far enough away to give him space. I speak quietly. “Sherlock… Sherlock, talk to me. Please tell me what’s wrong, love.”

He doesn’t answer. But I notice that he relaxes a bit; uncurls and stretches his legs out. I take this as a sign that he is listening, so I keep talking.

“Do you remember the first time I told you that I loved you? It was after that whole Magnussen business, and that assassin who shot the both of you. You were in hospital, and I thought you were unconscious. I was poring my heart out to you, begging you not to die, because I loved you and couldn’t go on without you. And you said…”

“As ever John, you see, but do not observe.” Sherlock rolls over to face me and takes my hand. “If you did, you’d know that I love you too.”

He pulls me down and I lie next to him. “Better?”

“Somewhat… Today wasn’t exactly a bad day, but it wasn’t good either. I always leave Dr Johansen’s office feeling a bit out of sorts.”

“You’ve never mentioned that before, Sherlock. Have you told this to Dr Johansen?”

“No… I…” Sherlock grabs a box of tissues from the bedside table, blows his nose and wipes his eyes. “John, I want to go away… away from London.” He sits up and leans against the headboard, but never lets go of my hand. “I want to go somewhere where empty buildings don’t remind me of blood and monsters and everything that happened to me. Where there’s peace and quiet and fresh air, and I can be left alone. Just the two of us, John. Please…”

Sherlock looks and sounds so pitiful God, how can I refuse him? “Do you have someplace in mind?”

And then he smiles. That beautiful smile that lights up his whole face and leaves crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Oh, yes, Sherlock Holmes knows exactly where he wants to go.

“West Sussex…”


	12. Chapter 12

_Now, in the drowsiness of day, that carven and delicate fane was silent, and Carter heard only the murmur of the great stream and the hum of the birds and bees as he walked onward under the enchanted sun._  
\- H.P. Lovecraft, _“The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath”_

**Sherlock’s Cottage**  
**East Dean, Eastbourne**

It seems that Sherlock is a property owner, much to my surprise. He has a cottage in West Sussex that he bought as a place to spend his retirement years in. And there are bee hives. I should have known – the man is obsessed with bees.

Sherlock calls ahead and notifies the caretakers, James and Margaret Hastings, when we will be arriving, and they meet us at the cottage. Cottage… when Sherlock told me he owned a cottage, I was thinking of a single level residence with a couple of rooms, much like his parent’s home. But, no, it’s a beautiful two storey brick dwelling on five acres of land – including a burbling brook – with an absolutely gorgeous garden filled with flowers and flowering plants. It looks like something that should be featured on the cover of an architectural magazine, or _Homes and Gardens_.

The Hastings help bring our luggage inside before giving Sherlock the keys and heading home. They’re our nearest neighbors, about two miles down the road, and we’re about a mile from the town of Eastbourne itself.

I get the grand tour of the place, including the hives, before we unpack and make lunch. The Hastings have thoroughly stocked the pantry, cabinets and refrigerator for us. It’s strange, but refreshing, to open the door and find food instead of body parts.

After we eat, I wash the dishes and let them dry in the rack, before Sherlock and I go outside to enjoy a walk in the afternoon sun.

* * *

We begin to fall into a daily routine: wake up, shower (separately), breakfast, Sherlock checks the hives (and extracts honey when necessary), while I clean up and read the papers, then a walk into town (if we need supplies), or just around the property. Sherlock and I even work in the garden together (his excuse is that the flowers are important for the production of honey).

“Do you know the names of all these flowers and plants?”

Sherlock looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “The scientific or common name?”

“Now you’re just showing off.” I chuckle.

“Then why did you ask?”

“Just trying to make conversation.”

I pull out a few more weeds and check for insect damage like Sherlock’s taught me. He really does have a wealth of information stored in his brain.

“Actually, I do have a question, Sherlock.”

“Yes...”

“Why aren’t there more blue flowers? There are several yellow varieties, as well as pinks and reds and whites, and even a few purples, but almost no blue. Why is that? Blue is my favorite colour. I’d like more blue flowers in our garden.”

“Alright, John. I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

Sherlock is happy; happier than he’s been since leaving hospital. He’s even started some experiments, thankfully not in the house. There’s a large shed in the garden, which I assumed contained tools and such – which it does – but Sherlock’s also managed to stock it with lab equipment.

His time spent in the shed has been gradually increasing a bit more each day. I leave him alone for the most part – I don’t want him to think that I’m hovering – but the truth is, I worry about him constantly. Sherlock is a great actor, and knows how to conceal or suppress his emotions when he thinks it’s to his advantage; or to prevent upsetting me.

I make up a tray with tea and biscuits and bring it out to him. He opens the door at my knock and takes the tray from me.

“I thought you might like a snack.”

“Considerate as always, John. Thank you.” He gathers me in his arms and kisses me.

I wrap my arms around him and return the kiss, perhaps a bit more forcefully than I mean to. Sherlock bumps into the table, then suddenly pushes me away.

“John, I… I can’t… I’m not…”

“Shit! Shit… I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m sorry. It’s okay, I’ll just go back to the house.”

“No!” He yells at me. “I mean…” Sherlock takes a deep breath and blows it out. “Please don’t go, John.” He gestures towards one of the chairs and I sit.

Sherlock pours us both tea, then takes a seat himself. There’s a slight tremor in his hand as he takes a sip. I’ve upset him. Christ, if I’ve caused a flashback…

“I’m sorry, John.”

“No, it was **my** fault.”

“Stop... Stop right now. I need to take responsibility for some things, and this is one of them.” He takes another sip of tea. “I know I haven’t been much of a husband to you since my release from hospital. And I’m so grateful for your patience. Physical intimacy is important in a relationship, and I’ve denied it to you for over seven months now. And that doesn’t even take into consideration the six months I was actually in hospital. That’s a long time to go without sex, especially when you’re used to having it regularly. I’m surprised you haven’t sought companionship elsewhere.”

“What?” My voice actually squeaks, so I clear my throat before continuing. “Sherlock, we’ve gone over this with Dr Johansen, individually and together. What those cultists did to you… You can’t blame yourself for that. They raped you. Even if there wasn’t penetration, they performed sexual acts on you without your consent. That’s rape in the eyes of the law. And it doesn’t matter to me that we haven’t made love in a while. We still hug and kiss; you let me sleep with you. Sherlock, waking up with you in my arms is absolutely wonderful. I could just watch you for hours. Geez… now I sound like a stalker.”

Sherlock laughs. “Oh, John…”

I reach over and take his hand in mine. “Sherlock, I would **never** cheat on you – **never** … You… Look, you know I’m not good at this stuff; never have been. But I want to be perfectly clear on this point – I love you, Sherlock Holmes, and when we promised till death do us part, I meant that with every breath in my body. And I plan on spending the rest of my life with you… if you’ll have me.”

Sherlock squeezes my hand, and when I look into his face, his eyes are filled with tears. “Of course I will, John. I can’t imagine anyone else at my side but you.”

We both stand and hug each other tightly, and Sherlock kisses my cheek. When we pull apart, I take a good look at his work table. There are test tubes filled with plant cuttings, flower petals spread out in neat rows, jars of dirt, a high-powered microscope with a box of slides, a couple of open notebooks that contain Sherlock’s sketches, and what looks like an ultraviolet light hanging from the ceiling.

“What exactly are you working on?” I question.

“Several things, actually.” Sherlock says as he wipes at his eyes. “I’ve been examining all the flowers we have in our garden under ultraviolet light. Bees can see ultraviolet wavelengths and, as it turns out, flowers have patterns of UV within their petals which attracts the bees. So I’ve been trying to determine which flowers we should actually continue to grow and which ones we should replace.”

“That’s amazing! But tell me something I’ve always wondered Sherlock… why the fascination with bees?”

“I’d have thought that was obvious, John. It has to do with chemistry.”

“Chemistry?”

“Yes, bees collect pollen from flowers and turn it into honey. They also make wax and Queen’s jelly. It’s all chemistry, John. And don’t get me started on the complex organization of the colony itself.”

I pull him close and kiss him again. If I don’t, he’ll ramble on for hours.

“You said several things. What else are you working on?”

“Um… I’m testing the soil from the garden. It can’t be too acidic or too basic. The balance has to be just right. Again… chemistry. I was also thinking of installing a bin behind the house so we could make our own vermicompost. We would just need to invest in the purchase of several varieties of earthworm.

“And I was thinking we could expand the garden a bit and have a section of vegetables. You did mention that you preferred fresh to canned.”

“It sounds like you plan on making this a permanent residence for us. What about Baker Street?”

Sherlock’s face falls. “I don’t know if I can ever go back there, John. I’m sorry. I should have discussed this with you before now.”

“One day at a time, Sherlock, remember? That’s what we decided on. We’ll stay here as long as you need to, and if that turns out to be for the rest of our lives, that’s fine. The village doctor is getting on in years; maybe I could take over his practice.”

I get one of Sherlock’s smiles at that. “I love you, John Watson.” He hugs me again. “Now let me get back to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the cottage I took inspiration from for Sherlock's retirement home: https://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/2978168


	13. Chapter 13

_Memory sometimes makes merciful deletions._  
\- H.P. Lovecraft, _“The Case of Charles Dexter Ward”_

**Sherlock’s Cottage**  
**East Dean, Eastbourne  
**

****

Summer makes way to Fall, and Fall to Winter. I have to say that I never imagined myself living in the country and raising flowers and vegetables with Sherlock Holmes. But if I’m honest with myself, I’d be happy anywhere as long as Sherlock is with me. Sherlock is home.

And here I am getting all maudlin, despite the fact I haven’t had anything stronger than tea or juice since we arrived here ten months ago. Sherlock is starting to get restless, and I’m not sure what to do. We can only play so many games of Operation, Cluedo or cards. I should have realized that once Winter got here, things would change.

Despite the restlessness, Sherlock continues to improve. He and Dr Johansen have weekly Skype sessions; sometimes I join them.

Greg calls to tell me that the Caird and Rayner building has been demolished, after the statue of Cthulhu was blown to bits.

* * *

Now I’m really getting worried. Sherlock has been acting strangely all morning. He’s barely said two words to me, and he keeps staring out the window towards the shed.

“If you want to go out and work on your experiments, you can Sherlock. Just remember, it’s going to be freezing in there, even with the space heater.”

He doesn’t acknowledge me, just grabs his coat and scarf and runs out the back door.

* * *

Sherlock’s been in the shed for over an hour. He has to be cold. I’ll bring him some hot chocolate. That way I can check on him.

* * *

I walk into the shed – Sherlock’s sitting in a chair, eyes closed. He looks like he’s asleep. I put the cocoa on the table and go over to him.

“Sherlock… Hey, I brought you some hot chocolate. I figure you might want to warm up a bit.”

He doesn’t respond, so I reach out and shake his shoulder. “Sherlock? Sherlock!”

It takes me a couple tries, but he finally opens his eyes, blinks, then looks around the shed before facing me.

“John, we need to talk.”

* * *

We settle in the living room in front of the fire.

“I’m afraid I’ve gone and done something rash without discussing it with you or Dr Johansen first.”

“Rash… Sherlock you haven’t started using drugs again, have you?”

“What! No, of course not! I gave you my sincerest promise that I would never takes drugs again unless you approved them for me. No, this is something completely different, John.

“Do you recall that I once told you that my brain was like a hard drive, and it only made sense to put things in it that were useful?”

“Yes; you said that you’d deleted the information about the Earth revolving around the Sun.”

“Exactly! I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I concluded that if I was able to delete the information about the Solar System, then similarly I should be able to delete everything that happened to me when I was with the cultists… so I did.”

My jaw drops open and for a moment I’m speechless. “You deleted **everything**?”

“Well, I remember there being cultists and something about an idol they were worshipping, but that’s about all.”

Once again Sherlock Holmes has completely amazed me.

* * *

We immediately call Dr Johansen and explain the situation. He’s understandably skeptical, and wants to meet with us both. We agree to return to London in two days.

Sherlock isn’t sure we’ll be returning to the cottage, so he advises the Hastings’ of our departure plans.

We spend the rest of the day packing and making arrangements for our return to London.

That night, Sherlock and I make love for the first time in a **very** long time. It’s tender and sweet and god how I’ve missed this. Afterwards I clean us both up and just hold him in my arms until we both fall asleep.


	14. Chapter 14

_If heaven is merciful, it will some day efface from my consciousness the sight that I saw, and let me live my last years in peace._  
\- H.P. Lovecraft, _“The Lurking Fear”_

**221B Baker Street**  
**London**

We take a taxi from the train station directly home. Mrs Hudson greets us with open arms.

“I’ve gotten you some things that should last a few days, but you’ll need to do shopping. And I’ve started a fire and aired the place out a bit.” She looks us over with a critical eye before wrapping us both in a hug. “It’s so good to have my boys back. Now go upstairs before I start crying.”

Sherlock and I both kiss her on the cheek and head up to the flat.

* * *

I have a strong sense of déjà vu as Sherlock walks around the living room. It’s been close to a year since he was released from hospital, but I fear the shadow of Cthulhu will always hang over us. How I wish I could delete things from my brain as easily as he.

Oh well… I take the luggage into the bedroom and unpack, then wash a load of laundry while Sherlock busies himself with his laptop. I sort through the mail, then start on the stack of newspapers Mrs Hudson has saved for us. I have a feeling Sherlock is going to want to get back to work once Dr Johansen releases him as a patient.

I make us sandwiches and tea for lunch, and the two of us just take it easy for the rest of the day, falling back into a routine very much like we had in Sussex.

Mycroft and Lestrade both stop by that evening to welcome us home. Sherlock explains briefly about deleting the information on the cult. Mycroft isn’t sure that’s such a good idea, but it’s a moot point as it’s already done. He tells us that there’s been no cult activity since the night we rescued Sherlock, but will reactivate surveillance on Baker Street now that we’ve returned just to be on the safe side.

Sherlock and I bid them both good night, watch a bit of telly, then head off to bed. Tomorrow is going to be an interesting day.

* * *

**Nightingale Hospital**  
**11-19 Lisson Grove**  
**Marylebone, London**

We arrive at Dr Johansen’s at 9:00 and are ushered into his office after a few minutes.

“John, Sherlock… please take a seat. I must say I was quite intrigued by your phone call. Please explain this process of deleting information to me.”

Sherlock spends the next 30 minutes going over the process with Dr Johansen, starting with his memory retention technique, or his Mind Palace as he calls it. After he’s finished, Dr Johansen just shakes his head and chuckles.

“I always knew you were a remarkable man, Mr Holmes, but I never knew how remarkable and unique that brain of yours was. I wish all my patients had the ability to delete information they found distasteful or upsetting.”

“It’s not something I do often, Dr Johansen. But I’ve found that it is a very useful tool for me.”

We chat for a few for minutes, then Dr Johansen states he’s releasing Sherlock from his care. He doesn’t feel he’s a threat to himself or anyone else, and I, as a qualified physician, should be able to care for him.

We leave the doctor’s office and have a celebratory dinner at Angelo’s that evening, complete with wine. All in all, things have turned out much better than I could have ever hoped for.

* * *

Our lives once again fall into a semblance of normality. Sherlock and I solve cases together for another 10 years or so, until a heart attack fells me while chasing a suspect down one of London’s countless alleys. Lucky for me I was ahead of Sherlock this time. I’ll never forget the look on his face – he was terrified. That’s not a look I ever want to see on my husband again. Yes… husband. Sherlock and got married not long after the whole Cthulhu business.

The heart attack wasn’t too serious – although there was total blockage of one artery. A stent was inserted and I spent a couple of days in hospital. Sherlock never left my side once I was out of surgery, and no one dared ask him to leave. Mycroft may have had something to do with that.

It was decided (by Sherlock) that now was a good time for us to retire and move to Sussex permanently. I don’t disagree.

We have 20+ more years together – the happiest days of our lives.


	15. Chapter 15

_For this place could be no ordinary city. It must have formed the primary nucleus and centre of some archaic and unbelievable chapter of earth’s history whose outward ramifications, recalled only dimly in the most obscure and distorted myths, had vanished utterly amidst the chaos of terrene convulsions long before any human race we know had shambled out of apedom._  
\- H. P. Lovecraft, _"At the Mountains of Madness”_

**Epilogue**  
**Sussex**  
**December 2046**

I compose a short email, attach the narrative, and send it off to DI Eric Lestrade of New Scotland Yard. Yes, Greg’s son followed in his footsteps. He was just a boy when the whole Cthulhu business took place, but I have no one else to share the story with; at least no one who would believe me. Perhaps Eric will think it’s just the ramblings of a senile old man. I hope not, for the world’s sake.

The fire’s died down and a sudden chill spreads through the cottage. Guess I should head up to bed.

Out of habit, I check to make sure all the doors and windows are secure, then turn out the lights and make my way up the stairs. There’s a tightness in my chest, but it’s not severe enough to take another pill.

* * *

Ablutions complete, I slip into bed, pull up the duvet and close my eyes.

A strange sensation washes over me, as if I’m moving at great speed. I open my eyes and find myself in a gigantic underground cavern. It’s freezing. A noise behind me makes me spin around. I almost wish I hadn’t.

Before me is a huge, shapeless thing that blocks the path. It’s at least five meters in length, resembling an amoeba, made of iridescent black slime; its mouth, or what goes for one, is filled with long needle-like teeth. Hundreds of eyes cover the surface of its body, and all of them are fixed on me. I catch movement in my peripheral vision, and I notice the creatures are everywhere. I’m surrounded, with no possibility of escape.

As one, the things move towards me. I pivot – there’s only one direction open to me – up a steep flight of stairs. I begin to run, hoping there’s some form of egress from this place.

I dare a glance behind me; the creatures are still following, but at a leisurely pace. They don’t seem to be trying to overtake me, and I realize they are herding me – towards what horror I can’t imagine.

There’s a large opening at the top of the stairs – a doorway – but not one built by or for men. I step through and immediately lose my footing on some loose detritus. The wind is knocked out of me as I tumble down a steep incline for what seems like minutes, but is, in actuality, just a few seconds.

I must have momentarily lost consciousness, because when I come to my senses, my teeth are chattering. All the heat has been leached from my body, and I’m in danger of contracting hypothermia. Escape now is imperative, even if I have no idea where I am or how I got here.

Slowly and painfully I sit up, move onto my knees, and manage to stand upright. I don’t think anything’s broken, but I’m going to have some spectacular bruises. At my age I should be dead… Wait… I look down at my hands – they’re smooth and free of liver spots. I touch my face; it, too, is free of wrinkles. What the hell is going on?

There’s another path for me to follow, with a much slighter grade than the one I just rolled down. As I make my way up the incline, I notice a pale blue luminescence which gets brighter as I approach. The creatures have failed to follow me into this cavern; perhaps this was my intended destination all along. A few more steps and I’ll be at the apex. I take a deep breath and walk forward.

* * *

I gasp at the sight before me. It’s a cyclopean room, circular in shape, with bas-reliefs carved into the walls. Directly ahead of me is an elaborate throne, hewn from the stone of the cavern. But it’s what’s sitting on the throne that sets my heart pounding frantically.

It’s a man… a human. His skin is pale as death; dark brown curls cover his bowed head. He’s naked – feet together with legs slightly spread; arms crossed at the chest like some Egyptian mummy. 

I’m drawn to him. As I move closer, he raises his head and locks his eyes to mine.

I scream.

And scream.

And scream until my throat is raw and my voice is gone. The man on the throne spreads his legs apart and beckons to me; I drop to the ground and crawl to him – emotions alternating between shock and disbelief. It can’t be; it just can’t.

* * *

He reaches down, wipes the tears from my face and smiles. That smile… the one I fell in love with so many years ago; the one he showed only to me.

“Sherlock…” I whisper.

He nods and leans back.

I bury my face in his groin and worship him.

_“Iä! Iä!”_

**The end.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it. Technically, this is my first piece of Sherlock fanfiction, although I've been writing for years in other fandoms. There were times I had to literally drag the words out of Sherlock and John, but we made it to the end eventually.
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed it. Constructive criticism is always welcome.
> 
> And, finally, here's an image of the creatures that I imagined surrounded John: https://goo.gl/images/ZeLSAE.
> 
> Mrs. Fish  
> October 2018


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